The Second Wife aka Wives Behaving Badly

‘Eve sounded a bit strange, but so far so good.’

The dressing on the beans had been made extra, extra tart and the inside of my mouth puckered at the first mouthful. I had never cared for lemons. A tall, tanned man at the adjacent table was gazing with unabashed horror at the plate of mung beans and tofu that had been placed in front of him. He looked across to me, and I found myself smiling in sympathy. He shook his head, and smiled back.

Gisela was not enjoying her meal. Unusually, she was jumpy and unsettled. I forced down a mouthful. ‘I guess Marcus has issued an ultimatum.’

She leant back in her chair.

‘He’s called your bluff,’ I went on. ‘It’s either Roger or him?’

Gisela picked up a spoon and attacked the small slice of paw-paw balanced on a piece of melon. ‘It’s very inconvenient of him to make a fuss at the moment.’

‘Poor Marcus.’

The corners of Gisela’s mouth went down. ‘He knew the situation.’

That was irrefutable, and I pondered the rules of Gisela’s life. Was Marcus a permanent lover or was he only permitted to be so between husbands? Was there a code of practice for this sort of thing? The melon on my plate was unripe and frigidly cold, and my teeth jumped as I bit into it. ‘What are you going to do?’

She tensed. ‘That’s what I want to talk about.’

‘I’m touched that you feel you can confide in me… and this is wonderful,’ I gestured to the room, ‘but I don’t know that I can help.’

‘I’m surprised.’ Gisela was taken aback. ‘You’ve been there. In your time you’ve been ruthless, and I wanted your clear head.’

I absorbed this in silence. After a moment, I said, ‘But you knew that, one fine day, you’d arrive at this point.’

She sighed. ‘I tried not to think about it because I knew that if I did I’d lose my nerve. Even I thought how peculiar and far-fetched the set-up was. Marcus accepted that I wasn’t going to marry him until he began to make some money. He had other women too, and whenever I was free he wasn’t, and vice versa. The timing was hopeless. But I always told him he was free to go, and he could have abandoned me years ago. It’s only now that he’s put his foot down. I never quite meant not to marry him. Things didn’t work out quite right.’

‘I don’t hold any brief for Roger,’ I said, ‘but I suspect it would hurt him a lot if you left.’

Gisela bit her lip. ‘Normally I don’t have this problem. My husbands usually die, and that’s quite different.’

‘Quite different.’ The conversation wasn’t leaving a good taste in my mouth and I applied myself to the frozen melon.

Gisela had abandoned hers. ‘I’ve realized something rather dispiriting. I’m no longer a risk-taker.’ I was about to say that I considered her to be quite the reverse when she added, ‘Marcus has been my life. If I say no to him I’m cutting him off for ever, and I can’t bear to think of that. Being married to Roger is more complicated than it ever was with Nicholas or Richmond. They left me alone in a way that Roger doesn’t.’

‘Are you sure he has no idea about Marcus?’

Gisela dropped her eyes to the table. ‘No.’

The big hand of the clock over the buffet table had inched on to the hour. ‘Gisela, I’ve got an appointment with hot stones. We’ll have to continue this conversation later.’

Gisela consulted her file. ‘And I’m for the mud.’

She hurried off, and as I threaded my way through the tables, the tanned man said as I passed, ‘I ate the tofu.’

‘And lived?’ I murmured.

‘just.’

Whoever dreamt up the hot-stones treatment had known a thing or two about the human psyche. The girl in the white coat explained that, during the Middle Ages, patients were cupped with heated glasses to draw out their bad humours and this was not a dissimilar process. Such a neat idea, and so suggestive. Bad temper, ill grace and melancholy could be dispersed with a hot glass or stone. So, too, could grief and regret – if you believed it.

I emerged with red patches imprinted on my skin and a pounding head – the toxins making their exit felt – and fell on to a massage couch.

An angel in white pressed confidently on my spine, a light, detached touch.

Behind my closed eyelids, the twins ran downstairs on a Saturday morning and into the kitchen. ‘Daddy, what are we going to do today?’

And Nathan, biting into his toast, would say something along the lines of ‘Well, I think I’ll test you on your spelling.’ Then, when the cry of outrage went up, ‘No? what a surprise. I thought you boys loved spelling. I’d better think of something else. Let me see, what about doing some dusting for Mummy? No?’ Five minutes or so later, the twins having unaccountably rejected homework, housework and gardening, Nathan pulled in his fish. ‘Wait for it, yes, one of you is sending me a message. It says… I’m getting it… What does it say? Adventure playground and pizza? Am I right?’

Very often I had said, ‘Oh, Nathan, just tell them.’

The masseur’s fingers sought out the area of my sciatic nerve. That particular game had been played for the last time, and I was shaken by its loss. I would miss its absurdities, the crackle it imparted to a Saturday morning.

‘You’re very tense, Mrs Lloyd,’ the girl remarked.

How many times a day did she repeat this mantra – so soothing in its understated sympathy? She was implying that those lying on her couch had the troubles of the world locked into their muscles and only she, the professional, could help.

She cupped my head and manipulated my neck. ‘I think you’re especially stressed. I can tell from the way the muscles have clenched.’ The fingers dug and probed. ‘They are very…’ she paused for effect ‘… tight.’

It was like being given a medal. My fatigue was proof that I mattered in the outside world – all those burnt-out movers and shakers – and I merited a place on this couch. I needed her, and she required my depleted state as a reason for working. It was a tidy arrangement.

At the end of the session, she fussed over the removal of the towels. ‘I’ll leave you now.’ She stood in the doorway. ‘You must take care of yourself, Mrs Lloyd.’ She meant every word, yet none of them.

‘Thank you.’

I had just arranged myself satisfactorily beside the pool, which was a deep turquoise flanked by fake marble pillars, when I felt a presence. It was the man from the dining room.

‘Hello.’

My response was polite, if not enthusiastic. ‘Hi.’

‘I could do with some company.’ He smiled invitingly. ‘I’m here on my own, and finding it tough.’

‘Food killing you?’

He dropped into the seat beside me. ‘Whoever invented tofu deserves to be taken to the vet and put down.’

I laughed. ‘You can order the non-diet diet, you know.’

‘I shall. Name’s Alan Millett. I’m here because my family have thrown me out while they organize my birthday surprise. They don’t know that I know.’

‘But you went along with it?’

‘Why not? It’s giving Sally, Joey and Ben enormous pleasure. I agreed that I needed a bit of a break and allowed them to pack me off.’

The plastic envelope fell to the ground and I bent over to pick it up. I found myself looking up at Alan Millett in the way I’d looked at Nathan when Rose had taken me home to meet him. Alan Millett looked back at me. He had an open, honest face. It said, ‘I am a family man, and I love my family but… hey, you know what?’

‘You have interesting eyes,’ he said. ‘Has anyone ever told you so?’

Had my Pavlovian responses been blunted? Why did I not feel, This might be worth a punt? Why did I not instinctively arrange my features into invitation? I sat up straight. ‘Yes. My husband.’

A woman at the other end of the pool stood up and peeled off her dressing-gown to reveal a bright red swimsuit. She stepped lightly, confidently down the pool steps and launched herself, with a muffled gasp, towards